


don’t wanna know

by protaganope



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, But also sorta just a vent fic, Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Multi, Other, Polyamory, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 21:12:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16145624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protaganope/pseuds/protaganope
Summary: (Character study that got a little carried away. Opportunity for continuation if I feel like it, but don’t hold your breath. No real timeline or au, but it’s modern.)A snapshot into John Lauren’s life.





	don’t wanna know

**Author's Note:**

> please be mindful of the tags if you’re going to read this shite

He’s not quite sure when it started.

John Laurens has always been… off, to a degree— it was his defining characteristic, all through school: if asked, it was always the first thing any of his peers would describe him as.

But wanting to die, that was something that came later. There’s a line somewhere between being in a bad mood and pondering the most efficient way to kill himself. He pursues it, nearly gets run over by more cars than he can count, but it never used to be so actively intentional. It’s only when he’s here, in his bathroom, dizzy, light-headed and halfway towards losing all sense, that he realises that there may be a problem here.

And it’s him, isn’t it? _He’s_ the problem, really, he would be doing the whole world a favour by just ending his life then and there with nothing else to do, and yes there would be loose ends but he honestly didn’t care about them, however-

For some reason, he doesn’t. Instead, he broods on his misfortune, like a raven in a tower, a bull tied in a valley, or perhaps just a perpetually small, angry teenager who doesn’t have the balls to go through with suicide.

The world moves on. He watches his knife carve another cut into his arm, splits his skin wide, pretends he could escape through the sting and the heat of a blunt edge on flesh, eyes the oily yellow globules of fat that bloom from his insides almost as though they’re a separate entity. Passes the knife to his other hand for a moment and presses a finger to them to have a feel. To his morbid fascination, the wound squeaks, like some kind of twisted balloon toy, and John thinks to himself _oh shit, I’ve actually done it this time._

He makes eye-contact with himself in the bathroom mirror and tries not to panic.

Blood suddenly rushes to the site like it had only now remembered it was meant to, and his vision is overcome with red. A distressed sound leaves John’s lips, not exactly of his own volition, and it buzzes uncomfortably against his ears.

He wasn’t really prepared for this, hadn’t quite realised that actions had consequences, like a kid suddenly faced with newfound freedom, dwarfed by the sheer weight of responsibility. Like 13 year old John, when his father had left him alone, in charge of all of his siblings, for those few weeks in March. But 26 year old John was strong. Powerful. _Too powerful_ , his brain adds, not-so-helpfully, _you know you're only powerful to the extent that you’ll end up destroying yourself and it should probably scare you more than this._

His father’s face sneers at him from the glass, and he looks away from his reflection, knows he’ll only find more hurt if he doesn’t.

Like most sob stories of petty angst, most of his main problems stem from his father, and his mind decides that he’s the best thing to focus on right now. Biggest piece of work John has ever known up until this day, and he’s including himself. But with the way genetics work, he supposed it won’t be so long until he outbeats him. It’s a sobering thought, and so whenever he feels his mind taking that route he wanders out to the nearest off-licence and downs as much alcohol as he can until any coherent thought is impossible.

What can he say? He’s his father's son.

(John’s childhood has been dead for a little over a decade, preserved in a barrel of his father’s repulsive brandy, so he reasons that he is only balancing it out.)

He heaves his numbing arm up over his head in a poor attempt to practice self care, assuming a pose like he read in a book once, and waits for the bleeding to cease. The red runs down his mottled arm in the same way stormcloud droplets of rain race down a windowpane. He doesn’t really think of anything during this. Just watches.

Eventually the wounds clot, and John is so tired, but also inexplicably disappointed. He wonders on that, debates within himself if he actually tried to die just then, in his bathroom at some menial hour when he should be at work, in a dingy apartment he barely managed to scrape the funds together to rent with his boyfriends after his father blocked him from accessing his own goddamn bank account. 

He wraps the wound lightly in a bandana, not bothering to try and clean it. It’s a miracle he hasn’t caught infection yet. He doesn’t feel lucky. It will hurt like hell when the blood dries, but he doesn’t care. He’ll wash where blood and fabric become one off later in the shower, pick off any scab forming and cover it again after with bandages or anything that resembles that and fits the purpose.

Alex and Gil will be home soon, he allows himself to recall, changing his hoodie out for a heavier, less messy version. The sink is pink. He rinses it out and curses when some of the stain doesn’t go away. Pours bleach on it as he plugs the drain. Plans how to fake ignorance if asked about it later.

His roommates know that John’s… off.

They won’t push it if he claims to know nothing about it. He smiles to himself, and doesn’t need to look in the mirror to know he is a wretched sight.

Something deep inside himself, in his chest, simply _aches_ , and he at a loss over what to do about it, so he does what he does with every problem he encounters: he ignores it. 

His eyes sting but he takes deep breaths and refuses to cry. He’s always been stubborn. He huffs, half amused: it was the one thing his father couldn’t beat out of him.

The front door opens downstairs and John grabs all incriminating evidence and stashes it away in his drawer. Looks at himself again in the mirror, takes in features. Not in a vain way, but with the same clinical detachment as a diener working over a corpse. Eye bags. Knotted hair. Breakouts on his cheeks and forehead. He smells himself. A beat, and John sprays himself all over with the deodorant conveniently to hand. He doesn’t know who’s it is and doesn’t care. His hand takes a moment to cooperate but he’s soon exiting the bathroom, just as Hercules emerges from his room down the hall. The other man isn’t looking at him, though, dark eyes glued to his phone and John only barely dodges as he walks past him downstairs to greet the others.

John follows.

Gil has brought home with them many burgers and fries, enough for everyone, and John manages maybe four fries before his brain reminds him of the similarities in texture between this food and his opened skin. The round and shiny, saturated globules of fat infest his mind, and he struggles to keep a straight face as he nearly vomits, then and there. He pushes his portion away, agrees enthusiastically when Alex and Hercules offer to eat his share for him.

He’s shaking. John’s entire frame is vibrating, and he wants to stop but has no choice in the matter. He’s so very cold. He shoves his trembling fingers into the black pockets of his hoodie and hope his attire is too baggy for the others to notice.

They notice.

Of course they do, his boyfriends aren’t stupid. They’re quite smart, if John does say so himself, and he knows this because they pointedly don’t mention it. Him. Their eyes rove him up and down, sure, asking silent questions, but he doesn’t respond with any answers. Doesn’t even really look them in the eyes at all, but he never does, not unless he’s about to start a fight, so they don’t mind.

Alex offers him a monster, and yeah, he supposes monster is safe. So he accepts. Chugs the entire can at the same pace as Alex, if not faster.

The caffeine slams into him and ramps up his shaking to the next level but it does basically the same to Alex, so no one thinks anything of it. From there he becomes comfortable enough to start talking more, now that he can actually hear the conversation again.

He doesn’t see the way Lafayette giggles more when he takes control of the argument Alex and Hercules are having over how they split up John’s food, doesn’t notice the way that Alex talks louder when John’s participating, like he’s independant in his ability to be alive and spitting words simply because he can. Nor does he see the way Hercules’ shoulders relax minutely at the easy banter that the group of them never fail to generate. John’s mind is dyed and obscured by red and this inhabits his every perception, if he’s being honest.

If he’s not being honest, he’s fine. Nothing wrong here, officer, just a simple retired soldier going about his quotidian tasks in life. No sir, everything here was just _dandy_ , nothing to report.

John Laurens is not often a man of truths. He knows this, his lovers know this, and for a while, that’s good. It’s all anyone needs. 

But then one day Alexander brings home a certain Ms Maria Reynolds, and he can’t handle his own lies anymore.

“She can stay here,” he had agreed, even as his brain howled at him that she could certainly not stay here. Maria Reynolds, the woman in red.

Maria Reynolds, the woman whose husband left deep bruises on her skin and countless scars on her soul. John holds her as she cries into his chest, supports her over the weeks even at his own expense. He becomes possibly even more unstable, and the knife eats up more of his skin, bolder than he was used to, so he swaps to other expanses, occasionally.

He has to take a very long walk one night with his blade, after she mistakes him for her husband and wordlessly drops to her knees, tells him to have sex with her, do whatever to her, if that’s what he really wants. There are tears in her eyes and her voice shrinks as she does, and John thinks his heart would break if he had one.

No, John Laurens only feels rage, and he is ready to deliver true pain and death on the man who dared to hurt this poor woman, his dear friend, his equal, when she cries out and begs him not to. Then she shakes like a leaf in a gale, clearly expecting John to turn on her. He bites down on his hand and then tells her he won’t.

But he’s John Laurens. He lies.

James Reynolds didn’t know what hit him.

Maria did, however, and she doesn’t talk to John for a month. He feels that familiar pain in his chest again the entire time, but he can’t complain. 

Alex doesn’t talk to him either, but for significantly shorter time. He lasts maybe half a week before they’re back to their good natured play fighting. And Alex is a fantastic lawyer. When Reynolds takes John to court, Alex somehow gets him acquitted after a long discussion (and two weeks of almost no sleep, retaining consciousness by sheer force of will. Well. The fact that Reynolds abused his wife, and the numerous cans of monster poured time and time again into Alex’s espresso probably helped.) Gil and Hercules make him promise not to do it again.

He doesn’t say it again to anyone, but the poor excuse for a man that was James Reynolds was just an outright bastard. A waste of oxygen and space. And though he lives for now, the next time John gets the opportunity? He’s dead.

Reynolds is a little smarter than John gives him credit for, though, and sets up a bodyguard system, signs a document that means John can’t be within a certain amount of feet from him. John tries not to be put out.

John will get justice for the woman in red.

He doesn’t know why he’s so obsessed with this (okay, he does, but he’s in denial) and any attempt to enlighten him is met with undue malice. John knows how to be nasty. He’s had a lot of experience on the receiving end, mirroring it isn’t exactly difficult. He should feel bad about it, but it’s been a long time since he’s felt anything at all.


End file.
